Men of the Skull Interlude: Thrown Out

 This is the newest Interlude chapter for my book Men of the Skull.  It's based upon a blog entry, but includes other details.  

The interludes go between the semesters in the book and track my trans journey.  This one is placed between Summer and Fall 1988.  

The book chapter won't have photos in it, but they're here anyway.  Because.

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Interlude IX: Thrown Out

Wednesday, August 28, 2013  Obama Weighs ‘Limited’ Strikes Against Syrian Forces

That night I was informed by my wife that her mother wanted me out of the house, and that on that Friday she would be changing the alarm codes. I was given two days to pack up and get out.

Of course, there was no way in hell I could pack everything in that time, even though many books were already packed.  I posted about this on social media, received many helpful comments, and also received offers of help with the move. A few people came with their pickup trucks to help.  As did another friend: Jessica.

I'd known Jessica for twenty years. She was dating someone in my old D&D group, and we clicked.  We remained friends through the years and Wife and I attended her wedding.  She volunteered to help.

I thought for a bit.  How could MIL really turn the knife if she wanted?  Easy answer- announce to everyone I was a crossdresser while moving!  And of everyone involved in the move, Jessica was the only one who didn't know. She’d seen me dressed as a woman at parties four times over the years.  Perhaps she even suspected something.

So that Thursday night, I invited her to Rock Bottom, a bar we both liked.  And I told her my Truth.  Gave her a business card with my Sophie picture on it. She looked at me and said "So what?  I always thought you were one of the girls."

So now all that were helping knew about me.  That took away MIL's trump card.

That Friday, I worked at the book store. I also sent Wife a text.  You see, I thought when I was exiled, I would be gone from her and my daughter's life, and I wanted one last night of "normal" life with them before leaving. One of the things that Wife and I spoke about on our first date all those years ago was our mutual love of Star Wars.  She is as much a fanatic for the movies as I am.  We first bonded over this among other things.

 

So, as the last movie we'd watch together, I wanted to watch Star Wars one last time.  She agreed.

My whole life was coming apart- I quietly cried twice at work that day.

That night, after my five year old Daughter was in bed, I put on Star Wars, and as usual when watching it, my wife curled up and lay her head in my lap.  The opening crawl hadn't finished when she quietly said "This isn't the last movie we'll watch together.  We'll still watch movies."

 

I looked down at her with a questioning look.

"I'm not throwing you out of our lives.  I fully expect you to be in [Daughter]'s life, and in mine."

The tears welled up again.  I didn’t want to cry in front of her- I wanted her to enjoy the movie. 

The huge star destroyer swallowed the hopeless, helpless small ship.

No escape.

 

She fell asleep as the Millennium Falcon escaped from the Death Star.  I watched the whole thing.  And slept in my own bed for the last time.  At 3 AM, right on schedule, our dog, Nittany, put her paw in my face, wanting to go out.  I let her out and petted her a little extra when she came back in.

The next morning, I packed like crazy.  As did Wife.  Friends and trucks arrived at noon. I was quickly soaked with sweat in the heat.  Thanks to the amazing help, most of my things were moved where they were going in a few hours. 

Before leaving for the last trip, I took Nittany back to my old bedroom, and hugged her, petted her, and cried like crazy.

I also took a picture

Then I went to the "living room" where Daughter was drawing on a box we gave her to play with.  I hugged and held her and told her I loved her.

 

"What's wrong daddy?"

"Daddy has to go away for a while."

"Why?"

 

 

Wife waited out by my car.  We hugged and kissed… and cried. Both of us.

I drove down the driveway, away from the place I called home for ten years, and my wife of twenty years.

I pulled over twice on the way to the new place as tears kept drowning out my sight.

The plan was that I would treat everyone to dinner at Shangri-La, the local Asian fusion place that once held the transgender events: Laptop Lounge, and then some would come to Winberies, where the events had moved. I also invited my "Big Sister" Mel.  I took a long, cold shower, as I was really overheated.  During the day, I went lightheaded a few times.  I then did a quick job on my makeup, and I introduced myself to Jessica as Sophie for the first time.

Dinner was great, and most people went to Laptop. 

While there, Mel repeated something she’d told me many times: “Cry it out.  You don’t have to pretend to be a man any more.”

 

I returned to the house around midnight, thoroughly exhausted physically, emotionally, spiritually.  I washed off my makeup and collapsed into the bed I'd be sleeping in for a while. And cried myself to sleep as quietly as I could.

So in the short term, this meant that I was living by the charity of a friend. It meant seeing my daughter when I could.

But I wasn't in their day-to-day lives any more.

 

Spiraling...

 

But it also meant that I was free to be Me. I could come and go as a woman. I could go anywhere as Sophie, except for work.  

 

At Winberies that night

"You don’t have to pretend..."

 

I didn’t know how my life was about to become so much worse… and how soon.

 

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Over a decade later, when my daughter was sixteen, she was tired of the secrets and lies.  I was invited to a session with her therapist where she bluntly asked my “Why did you leave?”

For over a decade, I never told her- Wife insisted.  That time was over.

               “I didn’t leave- I was thrown out.”  And I told her the story as well as I could remember it, sparing no details.  After all, at this point, she could understand.

 

            And she did.

Lucky?

I was texting with one of my cousins the other night.  She posted the following on fb:

I pointed out that we have family members who are part of the cult.  She said she knew- and that she avoids the topic when possible. 

She wrote:

"Its a very sad time in history. Ive taken a break from my first childhood friend. Not bc of her necessarily, but a mutual childhood friend jumped into a convo. I'd already unfriended this person."

I replied "I guess in some ways I'm lucky. I lost 90% of my friends when I transitioned. So I only lost about a half a dozen over maga."

"Ehhh..as you know, its a personal choice as to who one puts up with.  Are you lucky? That would make a great topic for your blog. I think you are lucky to know you have friends that you can be yourself with. Me.....I have many friends, but very very few know all of me. Make sense?"

"Makes a lot of sense. Am I lucky? I guess in only 2 ways. 1. I know who/what I am. 2. I know who my true friends are"

Is it possible to truly know another person?  Even after decades?

When I transitioned, I figured I knew how my closest friends would react, a good guess about how other friends would react, and an idea what most of my coworkers and others i knew would do.

Coworkers and others?  I figured most of them spot on.  I could always read people.  

Unfortunately, I was right about most of my friends.  But by then, I really didn't have many.  Really never did.  I'm a social misfit at best. I still wonder what it's like to be "normal."

But my closest friends?  People I'd known most of my life?  Several of them surprised me.  A couple of them who are very conservative not only supported me but all these years later are still there.  Has it been smooth?  No- but they're still there.  Conversely, a couple "liberal" friends just disappeared, and, despite me reaching out, we never spoke again.  

Then again, NONE of them knew about what was inside me.  I'd hidden it too well.  Even though everyone knew I was "different" in some way- picked on by the kids growing up, ostracized by most of my "brothers" at Penn State... but the idea of transgender never entered the realm of possibility.  

Either that makes me an amazing actor (and I have no acting awards), or an incredibly proficient liar.  I hate lies.  Yet I'm so good at it.

Only one person, a coworker from Baltimore whom I wasn't that close to, claimed he'd figured it out due to my level of anger at the world.  He'd seen it before in a family member who'd transitioned.  I don't doubt him- he's a pretty sharp guy.  

So, by that logic no one REALLY knew me- until that first Renaissance meeting in December 2008.  And in so many ways I was finally exploring the shadows of something I denied my whole life.  

Eighteen years later, I'm still learning.  

Valentine's Day 2026

So, can one person truly know another?  Even after, say, decades of marriage?

There are a very few people whom I know/knew well enough that we could finish each other's sentences.  And still, they surprised me.  One, with whom I was in a relationship, cheated on me and revealed a side I'd never suspected.  

Another killed herself.  She hid the signs so well.

Two of the biggest scars on my soul.

So, no.  I don't think its possible to truly know another person.  Everyone has secrets.  Everyone lies.  

"Don't tell me you know me When I don't even know myself"  Pete Townsend

I'm still learning.

Be well.  

Halloween 2008

I don't think I ever wrote about this night for my blog.  So, I wrote this for my book, Men of the Skull, and, well, here it is. 

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            It’s an ancient cliché that the smallest events, even a single word, can change a life. In this case, an off-hand suggestion over dinner.

 

Interlude 4: Forty-Two (Halloween 2008)

Friday, October 24^th, 2008 World Series tickets a hot commodity

The past year had been very hard— what with a newborn and all.  For my wife’s fortieth birthday, she wanted a weekend at Bethany Beach, Delaware, at the Addy Sea, a beautiful, haunted bed and breakfast.  We left our daughter—with her first birthday just days away—with my parents, who’d retired nearby.

That night, we went south a few miles to Ocean City, Maryland, for dinner at the Blue Ox.  With Halloween just days away, the subject turned to costumes.  We both loved Halloween and often did couples’ costumes.  But “we went as Lois and Clark last year,” I mentioned.  As in Lois Lane and Clark Kent. 

“Yes,” she said, “but this year, you’re Lois.”

At that moment, our meal arrived, and the server refilled our wine glasses, which ended the discussion for the moment.

Me as Lois?  I hadn’t dressed as a woman in twenty-five years.  I had shut down and sealed off that “freakish” side of my life.  Should I do it again?  Could I?  I was now much taller and heavier—testosterone poisoning does that, as does age.

 

What was I thinking?  Twenty-five years… no problem.  One night in a skirt and out.  No biggie.

After all, I was a MAN.

 

Friday, October 31st, 2008.  Parade for the Champs

Halloween

It had been a busy work week.  I asked a bookstore co-worker, Elizabeth, to help.  She showed me a memoir by a famous drag queen called I Am Not Myself These Days.  Brilliant book.  I figured she wouldn’t be weirded out by my request.  She wasn’t.

In fact, Elizabeth was very enthusiastic—too enthusiastic.  She helped me choose an outfit at a store specializing in plus sizes.  I found a wig and shoes online.  The memoir suggested using birdseed in cut pantyhose to fill the purple and black lace bra (it was on sale- 42 D).  An old friend who worked at a salon said she’d do my makeup.  Oh, and she invited us both to her Halloween party.  So, we had someplace to go—but we’d have to bring the baby.

 

No problem.

 

Everything was ready.  What could go wrong?

 

Halloween night.  I showered, shaved my legs, and after a quick nap dressed up in the girl stuff in the bathroom.  With me, I had the Superman T-shirt my wife would need.  She already wore glasses, as do I.  But that night I wore contacts.

On a whim, I brought my digital camera into the bathroom. I figured I’d take a picture of her reaction upon seeing me.  I came out of the bathroom armed with a camera in one hand and a Superman T-shirt in the other.  I adjusted the camera, my hand bouncing off the birdseed breast as I did.  She was in the kitchen, maybe thirty feet away.  She turned and saw me.

CLICK.

The look on her face was utter disgust- a stark contrast to her smiling jack o’lantern t-shirt.  I stumbled over in heels and tossed her the t-shirt.  “I’m ready.  Your turn.”

She looked confused, still disgusted.  She had forgotten all about her idea and thought we were staying home with our baby daughter.  So, I explained her idea back to her—and that our friend would do my makeup at the party.  She reluctantly agreed.

Fast forward: the party, me going into the bookstore where no one recognized me (except Elizabeth) which set me a bit at ease, a bunch of us later at a local sports bar where one of my female co-workers grabbed my fake boobs, curious how they felt.  Lots of people in the bar laughed. 

At the book store

Laughing while wearing a constricting bra and waist cincher was a new experience.  Also, I got some looks when I went to the men’s room.

Driving home, I realized that I had a wonderful time that night.

But something felt… different.  Strange.

I looked down at my sweater covered, birdseed breasts and realized what it was.

I felt at peace. 

The anger and depression I’d carried for decades was gone.  Missing.

I knew then that I had made a major mistake.  I was in big trouble.  The metaphorical wall I had built to contain my feminine self, the one that had held strong and firm for twenty-five years, had been breached.

 

I felt right.

 

God help me.

 

 

 

I still have that purple bra, and even wear it occasionally, despite it being a cup size too small.  Now it’s me, not birdseed, filling out the cups.  Funny how things change.

Burning

Interlude III: Burning

Tuesday, August 2, 1983.  Reagan Strongly Defends Policies On Minority And Women's Rights

I'd had enough.  I was done being a freak.  Goddamn it- I was a MAN (on the edge of seventeen!), and it was time I started acting like one!

Puberty finally kicked in about a year before, but I was still much shorter than my peers.  And still looked like I was twelve, which meant getting a date was all but impossible.  I used to go to dances with a friend named Cheryl, but I screwed that up a year before as well.  She'll probably never speak to me again.

Senior picture: July 1983

I was tired of being bullied by neighborhood kids, by my brother, by everyone.  So, I started studying martial arts in a dojo run by one of my mom's co-workers.  Beat the shit out of one of my bullies, and word got out.  His having a cast on his arm from a compound fracture was a good deterrent.

I would model myself after the men I saw in comics, but also after my dad and show no emotion, but Anger.  Endure no insult.  Defend.  Punish.

It was early afternoon when I started a fire in the backyard burn barrel using all my girl stuff: all the clothes, a wig I bought at Halloween in ’81, a little kindling wood, and lots of lighter fluid.  I put the makeup and shoes in a trash bag, and deposited it in the dumpster at Burger King, where I worked.  My family were all away in Delaware for the week, so no one would disturb me.

The hot, sticky sun beat down, as it had all summer.   As I watched and sweated, the flames rose to the music of my Sears boom box.

Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace

I dream at night, I can only see your face.

 In the shade of the oak tree, our German Shepherd Sabre lay resting, indifferent.  He was an old dog at this point, and tired.  As the smoke and flames consumed my shame, I felt lost- Like I was burning a part of me I'd never get back.  I felt like a heavy veil descended over me.  Suffocating.  Drowning out all emotions.

Sabre.  1982

A week later, Sabre died suddenly of brain cancer.  

He'd been my confidante: the only one who I could talk to about all this.  I felt like he understood.  Or at least, didn’t judge.

Now, I had no one.

I spiraled into a depression that even my co-workers and few friends noticed. It's never left me, even after decades of denial and therapy.

No one could ever know.  After all…

Men don't share stupid feelings. 

 

 

 

 

            I saved Sabre’s dog tag and put it on my keyring.  It’s still there.

A month later, I started my senior year.  Priority one was applying to colleges.  Drexel University was my primary goal, but I also applied to Penn State, as well as Temple’s Tyler school of Art. 

Then in January ‘84, I met this girl from St. Pius high school at a school dance.  Her name (in my book) was Julianne.  A girlfriend would cure me of that… foolishness. 

Right?

Story of Four

I've told this story so many times giving talks, but I've never written it down.   So here it is.

This story begins in June 1970 on a beautiful morning.  I was across the street playing with the neighbor's daughter, I’ll call her April.  She was my age: four years old.

It should be noted that even then I knew I was different.  I knew that I was called a boy, but I knew I wasn’t one.  That said, I didn't really know what a girl was either.  I just kind of knew our parts were different, also that I kept being told by my father that I was going to be raised as a man. I didn’t know what I was- so I must be a freak.

Freak at four

In any case, I was across the street with April, playing house when I was called back to our house by my older brother.  After looking both ways and crossing the street, I went into the house and found my father in the living room.  My mum and brother were nowhere to be seen.

Dad was sitting on a stool, his belt in his hand. I knew what that meant.  Every kid back then knew what that meant. I was told to come over and drop my shorts, which I obediently did.  He bent me over his knee and proceeded to give me the beating of my life.  

I can see it now, over fifty years later, as if it were still happening- feel the frustration and confusion.  

The whole time, he was saying "I'm not raising no fairies, I'm raising MEN!  You don't play with girls.  Girls are good for two things, and one of them is cleaning the house.  You're a MAN, and you will play with the boys.  Boys are better than girls!" 

I was then sent to my room for Eternity- which is what the rest of the day felt like back then.

So, what that beating taught me was that I was different, that this was bad, and that I would have to hide this difference for the rest of my life if I wanted to avoid punishment.

Oh how right I was!

 

Hall Street from the air, 1969.  My home was just a shade above dead center

Decades later, when I came out as transgender to my parents, I asked my dad if he remembered this incident.  He didn’t- and why should he?  To him, it was just another day and one of his kids needing punishment.

He was performing the role of father as he knew it- as it was shown to him by his father, and probably all the men in the family going back through time to Germany and beyond.  As most other fathers of the time did.

What Tom Said

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."  (Jefferson, Thomas, Declaration of Independence, 1776)

MAGA wants to, based solely upon my identity, deprive me of my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness- preferably in that order.  If they can't kill transgender women, they'll jail us.  If they can't jail us, they'll make our lives miserable.  

 Last Monday

It's Snorton's transnecropolitics writ large.  We have value to MAGA for two things: money makers and as "the enemy."  Fascism requires an enemy to "rescue" the people from.  With MAGA, it's brown people and it's transgender women.  Also, the Enemy is necessary for fundraising.  "Look at these horrible things!  Only WE can save you- if you send money!" 

Will transgender women still be the primary target after (not if) they overturn Obergefell v. Hodges?  

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

We fought for these ideals we shouldn't settle for less"

(Miranda, Lin-Manuel, Cabinet Meeting #1, Hamilton, 2015)

Later in that same referenced paragraph, Jefferson writes "That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it..." (ibid.)

The current regime doesn't care about poll results or opinions.  They care about power and money- the more the better.  They also don't care about protests- except for target practice.  

So, what can be done?  Unless the military remembers their oath and disobeys unlawful orders (or removes the problem from office), I don't know.  

Thomas Paine wrote "The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind" (Common Sense, 1776).

As this country falls into Russia influenced fascism, what can the world do?  No democracy is safe.  None.  Anywhere.

What a time to be alive.  

March of Questions

The cold rain falls here in State College, flutily trying to cleanse the Earth.  Evil has gripped the US.  It was on full display the other night during a televised speech to Congress.

Rainy days always make me reflective.  Perhaps rain are the tears of God or the dead.  Perhaps they are a metaphor for renewal and life, as water evaporates, rise, condenses, falls back to Earth just to eventually evaporate again.  

Wow.  Corny metaphors... and I'm not even drunk.

In any case, In the past week, people asked me questions that really gave me pause.  I figure writing them down would help me think through and process my answers.  You lucky people.

Recent pic

The first was asked  to me by a co-worker the other day, then by a therapy student last night:  What would healing look like for you?

This first came up during a discussion about Justice.  My coworker (who is against carceral state) believes that punishment doesn't help the victim at all.  My counter-point was "so the perpetrator just commits a crime, and gets away with it?"  Their point was that these are two separate issues- that society cares more about punishment than restoring the victim.  The coworker was once the victim of a hideous crime (I'm not at liberty to say what) while living in Hong Kong, and said that the first thing the authorities there did was to help them recover from the crime.  (yes, the perp was caught and punished.)  Hence the question. 

My answer: Wow.  I really have no idea. I've lost so much and have the scars to prove it. Move to a different house with Wife and daughter and live as a family again?  (and drag Linda along as well.)  The issue here is that if someone comforts me (like says "I'm proud of you), I don't believe them.  It bounces off my armor and doesn't get through (just like compliments.)  I've thought of this for a couple of days... am I beyond healing?  I mean- there's no way to have my years restored to me.  Apologies, while helpful, don't restore.  The "plate is still broken" so to speak.  

Of course, I could just let go of the past, and all the Pain.  But that Pain defines me- drives me.  

Without the experiences that caused the Pain (and other experiences) that make me who I am, for good or for ill.  That Pain gave me my drive and passion for justice.  Would justice on those who hurt me long ago bring me healing?  Not now.  Justice must be swift to be helpful.  That said, there are some graves that it would me great pleasure to, ahem, defecate upon.  

This is a question I need to really consider.  A lot.  

I thought of the second the other night while watching Casablanca.  That's a movie about many things, with regret being a major theme.  I thought about the losses I've endured- the many regrets I've piled up in my life.  Then I asked myself: Is it worse to regret something you did or something you did not do?

I posted the question on facialbook and received some good answers.

My answer: Something I did NOT do.  It's the hell of "what if."  When I regret something I did, I at least tried and found an outcome.  For example: I transitioned, and the following happened: blah blah.  I maintain that those results are better than wondering where my life would've been had not transitioned, but still wanted to.  If that makes sense.  (I already know what the alternative to transition would've been: death.)  

The third question was asked to me at a presentation I frequently do here at PSU: it's a brief LGBTQ 101, followed by the stories of the presenters, then a Q&A.  Usually the audience are undergrads, as we (me and the other presenters) are invited to speak to classes by the professors.  An F2M person (they told me) asked me the following:  What is your favorite part of being a woman?

In my eleven years of presenting about transgender issues, no one has EVER asked me that.  A question I get frequently is "What do you miss about being a man?"  (I usually steal Jennifer Finney Boylan's answer to that: "Pockets.")  Yet never the opposite.  The student said they couldn't imagine wanting any part of being female.  I get it- that's dysphoria.  

The answer I eventually gave was the 'permission' to feel and express emotions.  Guys really aren't allowed to do that lest they be accused of being "gay."  (Masculinity is a rigid, narrow course.)  Now, if I wish, I can cry, laugh, express all the emotions I wish.  After all, there's no 'restrictions' on women for expressing emotions.  Also, the estrogen allows me to feel more emotions.  There are emotions I experience that I can't even name.  (Did I install an emotion chip?)

In any case, all three are questions I need to keep considering.  If nothing else, to take my mind off the hell on earth that MAGA has made the world.

Be well.

February So Far

 I'm still here.  My existence is in itself an act of protest (or something like that.  Laverne Cox said it.)  I still haven't been sent to a camp somewhere.  Yet.  I'm still here, in spite of my Scottish cousin's repeated appeals.

Here we are on week 3 of the descent into fascism.  People far more informed than me have already written about all that's happening, especially to transgender people.  Here are some links:

Timothy Snyder (noted expert on fascism) on how the government is being dismantled.

Jessica Weingarten on calling out the Trump tax.

Heather Cox Richardson om Musk's government takeover.

Erin Reed who keeps her eye on transgender issues.

Melissa Ryan on multiple topics.  At the bottom of this one is an interesting news item, which I reproduce here:

"Declassified CIA Guide to Sabotaging Fascism Is Suddenly Viral (404 Media)

I read this guide when it first went viral in 2017 (and probably linked to it at some point). Amused that it’s going viral again, I assume it's being passed around at least in part by civil servants determined to hold the line."  

People who know me know I have a passion for history- in particular the history of resistance against the Nazis in WWII.  The headline above is inaccurate- when this guide was published in January 1944, the CIA did not exist.  This book was published by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), whose brief was "coordination for the gathering of intelligence" (from the above linked article.)Yes, it eventually became the CIA, but it wasn't at that time.  

Nit picking, I know.

Since the beginning of the semester, I've put an effort into my appearance at work.  I've pretty much gotten my makeup speed back by keeping it simple.  That said, this morning I was enraged by my getting cover-up into my hair.  A lot of it.  After a lot of other small things that had gone wrong, that was the one that put me over.  I wanted to tear the room apart, rip out my hair, wipe off all my makeup, and just disappear.  Those who knew me before my transition knew I had a violent, hair-trigger temper.  Transition really helped calm that storm, as has decades of therapy.  However, since November, I find my patience is getting ever thinner.  I want to isolate myself from everything ("turtle" as I call it.)  Of course, not being able to afford a therapist (finding one that takes my insurance is hard) hasn't helped either.  Nor has medical bills piling up by four figures almost daily (my insurance really sucks.)  

Work Sophie Selfie

I know: wah wah.  Cry me a river.

Still, I'm not in a camp somewhere.  I'm still employed.  I can still fight the fascist take-over (as we all should.)  I guess all of those are something.

Be well.

40th reunion already?

On Saturday November 16, 2024, the Spring Ford High School Class of 1984 gathered at Copperfield Inn, Limerick, Pa., for their 40th reunion.

That's all you need to know.  Bye!

.

.

.

.

.

Oh, ok I'll write more.  

Group shot from the Class trip.  I'm not in that photo

Wow.  Forty years in a heartbeat.  Heck, TEN years in a heartbeat.  Yet, in those ten, so much has changed.  I've gone from being new at transition to being a mentor: a trans "elder."  I've moved away from SEPa to State College, where I'm (supposedly) working on my PhD.  My daughter has gone from a child to a teenager.  The political scene has reached a boiling point.  I've made a friend or two but more than that have died.  The world survived a pandemic.

I have less years ahead of me than I have behind, and those years fly by.  I'd like to think that time has made me a better person, but I know that isn't true.  I've become more bitter and withdrawn.  I have gotten better at makeup though, despite rarely wearing it.

I wasn't going to attend this reunion.  It was $45 I didn't have. But, like the 30th, I was "bribed" by Eva, a classmate now in California.  She said she'd get me a hotel room for the night so I wouldn't have to drive back to State College that night.  Why she made me this offer, I don't know.  I still don't know why she offered to pay ten years ago.  

In any case, I made plans to get my hair styled near the hotel as I'm clueless.  It looked great for a while (until I started sweating.)  I then picked up wings at a local cheesesteak place that I must say were very disappointing.  I drove a backroad to the hotel that reminded me of what the area looked like when I was growing up- farms instead of strip malls and McMansion farms.

Limerick, PA

After meeting up with Eva (2 doors down in the hotel), she gave us both Korean facials (I have no idea what was in them- just that they were on plastic strips.)  She also wanted to do my makeup.  We settled on her doing my eyes and applying fake lashes which I simply cannot do.  She did a wonderful job on the eyes (I touched up one spot where there was a smudge) and I did the rest.  I wore the red dress I wore in Vegas with a bit of a push up bra.  Yes, I wanted the girls to shine!  I wanted to slay as best as I could.  That meant cleavage for miles, dammit!  

As I finished my makeup, the third of our group arrived.  She was my old friend Sue, who attended the 30th as well.  I went back to my room and watched the Penn State game as they changed and finished getting ready.  We rode over together in Eva's rental car, arriving just after 6.  When we arrived, we met a few other classmates in the parking lot.  We met another at the door.  Let's just say that back then, he and I didn't get along back in school.  Back then, we ended up in a fight which I handily won (remember- this is when I was still in the dojo.)  I did not introduce myself.  

I managed to reach some old classmates about this reunion.  One I hadn't seen (or heard from) in 30 years- not since the 10th reunion: Alecia.  She was #2 in our class (beaten by a razor thin margin) as well as an athlete.  Back then, we used to talk a LOT.  She was a sounding board after a couple of nasty events I will not discuss here.  When I first reached out to her (about the Scitman book) I wondered how she'd react to my transition.  I needn't have worried.  She took it all in stride, as I'd hoped (and rather expected.)  I'm guessing she googled me or something before responding, being a scientist and all.  Yes, she is a bionic scientist.  She can rebuild you.  She can make you better than you were.  Better, stronger, faster.  In any case, her husband was actually the one to talk her into going.  

With Alecia.  My hair already flattened.

She looked amazing (and yes, that's her natural hair color!)  We talked about old times, old friends, new times, her daughter's PhD... I always figured she'd become a doctor.  Nope- scientist.  Her husband was a delight as well.  He was content sitting back and watching people his wife knew from the day.  His opinion he kept to himself.

Eva, Thomas, Me, Dawn, Sue, Terri

I was surprised inside when I saw another old friend who'd moved to Houston: Dawn.  Dawn was a hairdresser by trade, and she was the one who did my makeup that Halloween fateful night in 2008.  Had I known she was in the area, I would've had her do my hair!  I was very glad to see her, and we sat next to each other at dinner.  (Dinner was nice, btw.)

As we're getting older, the number of "empty chairs" gets larger.  This time, there was a poster naming those who'd died.  It's missing a couple: John Cauffman and Don Schantz.  

Looking around, I noticed something: most of us looked our age.  Some looked younger.  Some looked FAR older.  Time had not been kind, and I assume neither had disease or such.  There but for the grace of God...  There were a couple of faces I hadn't seen at a reunion before this.  Alecia was one.  Another I will not name, but he was thrown out of the venue for being too drunk.  

Flat hair due to sweat- it was very hot in the room

I must say he wasn't the only one who made an ass of themselves.  I was standing in line for a drink when a slim, beautiful blonde and I started chatting.  I didn't recognize her, so I figured she must be a spouse.  She asked what I thought of the reunion, blah blah small talk.  She then asked what my opinion was of a certain classmate, whom I will call AH.  I didn't even think for a second as to why she would ask about such a specific person (who was in attendance) and said "He's an asshole. A bully.  He loved tormenting people smaller than him, thought women owed him sex then discarded them like toys, and all he ever talks about at the reunions is the spectacular football play he made our senior year.  (It actually was pretty spectacular, but still...)

I stopped myself before pointing out how, at the 30th, his wife wasn't there so he was flirting with many of the women.  Then I said, "Why do you ask?"  

She replied "Oh, I'm his wife."

Open mouth and insert leg!  I felt so incredibly stupid and apologized for my candor.  I bought her a drink.  She wasn't angry.  She explained that I wasn't the only one with that opinion.  Apparently, she knew very little about his high school days.  I said, "So you don't know about the 'the catch'?"  She rolled her eyes and said "oh believe me I've heard about THAT so many times..."  Anyway, she wanted to ask people about her husband to find out about his past from other people's point of view.  Perhaps she'd asked him and wasn't convinced by his answer.  In any case, she missed the 30th due to surgery.  I apologized again, and we parted.  We spoke again later, and she bought my last drink of the night (of 4).  

With Michele G

For the most part it was a quiet night, rather sedate.  I spoke with the people I expected/hoped to speak with, (including Michele G and Tony S) and that was nice.  My transition was old news, and only one person brought up the class trip (which was nice.)  That said, early in the night I had an affirming moment.  A female classmate (I won't say who) told me "I am so jealous of your tits!"  I thanked her and replied that I was very lucky.  

Still, that makes me smile, even as I write this.  At least SOMEBODY was impressed with my look for the night.  

After returning to the hotel, Eva, Dawn, a classmate named Al (who was very well dressed) and I hung out in my room, drinking and talking.  It was my favorite part of the night.  We learned things about each other and rehashed the events of the evening.  I finally went to bed at 3:30.  I was up at 8 to shower and go see Wife and daughter, followed by the long drive back to State College.  As you can imagine, by the time I arrived at the apartment I was exhausted.  I was really dragging at work the next day.  

I've had over a week to think about the event, of the people I saw, and where life had taken or done to us all.  After the thirtieth, I wrote "What brought me to this event?  What brought the others?  I think it's the need for Connection.  All we have in common is that we lived in the same area and were about the same age, so that made us classmates...  Connection.  We all need it.  Maybe in time all wounds heal, but they never heal alone.   Sometimes it takes Change... and someone extending their hand."  

That still applies.  I'd add to that these reunions also connect us to our long-lost youth- the halcyon days of energy, vigor, spectacular catches, and a life wide open with possibilities.  It seems that's all some people have.  That's not an indictment or a judgement: it just is.  I spoke to my dad about the reunion.  He had his sixtieth reunion several years ago- it was the first he'd ever attended.  He also said it would be the last held, as their numbers dwindle (they are all in their 80s.)  That's twenty years away for me- a heartbeat or last breath.  A wise friend once told me "Days drag, but years fly."  

They weren't wrong.  

Thanks again to Eva for her kindness in getting me a room for the night. 

Be well.

Branches and Paths

The other day marked five years since returning to State College for my PhD.  I wrote about it HERE and HERE, if you care.  For five years, I've worked on my degree- filling my head with academic articles, books, experiences, losses.  For the past two though, I've been kinda stalled.  I'll come back to this.

I've written here and elsewhere that Penn State is my happy place, and, if I could not live with Wife and Daughter, I may as well be in my happy place.  I dragged Linda (roomie/bestie) with me, and I don't know if she's happy about that.  (I think not, really.) In any case, for the past five years, my life has revolved around academia.  Eventually, I found a series of jobs, both at Wegmans and, for the past three years, here at the LGBT Center (I mention that a bit HERE.)

Since returning, I've taken a LOT of pictures (2,444 as of this second).  It's easy when one has access to a camera on the phone at all times.  I didn't have many photos from my undergrad days, and the ones I had were done with borrowed cameras.  Most of those were for the fraternity scrapbook, which, like the negatives, are lost.  I guess I'm making up for that a bit.  

One of the subjects I photograph often are the pathways here.  They honeycomb the campus like a spiderweb on LSD.  I can't stop thinking about the metaphor they represent.  The paths branch, going to different destinations, or just different paths to the same destination.  When I was in undergrad, I occasionally would take a longer route than necessary to reach my destination (when I wasn't running late.)  I didn't think twice about it, but in truth, each of these choices, conscious or unconscious, changed my life.  Had I taken a different way, say back to the fraternity house, who knows who I would've met?  What could've happened.  Perhaps I would've been hit by a car, or met the love of my life.    

And that's the metaphor of the Paths.  They represent the different paths a life could take- especially when one is younger, say, college age.  Who would I have become had I stayed at Drexel?  What if I got that job at National Records and never had to apply to Burger King, where I would meet the people who defined my Penn State experience for good and ill.  What if I decided "fuck those guys" when I received the cold reception at the fraternity and found a different group of people to hang with?  Who would I be today?

Would I even be alive?

It's a cliche to say that our choices, even the smallest ones, can change and define our lives.  Now in my late  fifties, so much of my life is set in stone.  I can't change my past.  I can't change who I am, or what I've done.  I have a daughter, and that's forever.  while some of the people I've met pass like shadows, others left deep marks and scars on my soul.  (What I hadn't gone to the Raven that night in January 2012, and met Lisa?)  

Nothing is permanent in life.  While I will always have a daughter, the nature of my relationship with her can/will change.  Life itself is temporary- a heartbeat in time.  Moments pass.

Which brings me back to that whole stalled thing.  I've been stuck in the same place in my path for two years.  Some of it has been deep depression.  Some of it has been fear- the fear of Failure, and yes, of the remote possibility of success.  But recently I think I figured out what my major malfunction is: I don't want it to end.  I don't want to leave PSU again.  Leaving in December '88 (and graduating in May '89), threw me into a very dark place.  I would've given ANYTHING to come back and be a student again- to return to that time.  

I was obsessed with it.  Hell, I even wrote a book about that time, trying to figure out what about that time could've caused such a depression when, really, most of the time I really didn't have a pleasant experience.  My brothers were cold to me, my girlfriend cheated, my grades were meh... Why did I want to go back?

But I am back.  I am such a different person now, and much older, which makes me outside the 'target audience.' But there's another big anchor... 

Here I'm employed.  I have a job.  I spent so long after the bookstore fired me on the unemployment line, sending hundreds of resumes and hearing nothing.  Rejection after rejection.  Here I have a job.  Yes, it's part time, but on some days I feel like I actually make a difference- my path intersects another person's.  That I'm actually worth something, if only for a moment.  

My path returned me here.  I fought to get my place, and I've managed to continue while others from my cohort... didn't.  I'm striving to reach the peak of the academic ladder.  I never in my wildest dreams expected my path to lead here.  Then again, I never expected my path to take me to transition.  I thought/hoped/prayed that my path would end before my thirtieth birthday.  And again on my fiftieth.

September 1986.  Pic by Chuck Fong

My road brought me here.  And, as before, I'm afraid to leave.  I'm afraid of failure.  I'm afraid of success.  I'm afraid of unemployment again.  So much for "rush[ing] in where angels fear to tread" (Alexander Pope, 1709.)  So I stare at the ceiling.  I walk around campus, following old paths I trod long ago.  Again.

Tolkien wrote in Fellowship of the Rings: “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”  

So true.

Be well.